It won't win them any new fans, but those that believed the truth last time will dig this.

After nine albums the Nashville oddball's parade of styles has dissolved into ambient noodling.

Offend Maggie is head-spinning bliss from beginning to end, and proves that the quartet are the best prog-rock post-punk Afro-Oriental art-pop folk-jazz band in the world.

It's Chrissie Hynde reinvestigating her roots with some rockabilly and a Dylan vibe.

Not everything is perfect here, the five live cuts, in particular, not particularly inspired choices. But you could lose yourself in these recordings.

This second album (featuring Grizzly Bear's Chris Bear and Chris Taylor) is a sumptuous sequence of symphonic meditations on memory and loss that somehow manage to give a more expansive twist to the already elegiac mood of Arcade Fire's Funeral.

If we are going to go, the magnificently mournful title track of this EP may as well be the soundtrack.

The 24-year-old's debut is a tropical soundclash of spiralling steel drums, looped, gnarled local songs and untrammelled joy.

The chatter of modern culture might make such a response to 7/7 unfashionable, but such a thoughtful voice, and so deeply felt a record, shouldn't go unheeded.

Beautiful yet detached, the music often bursts into life but more frequently simply drifts, all too willing to fall hypnotised under its own spell.

Profound and intense, they had reached a level of interaction most bands can only dream of. Svensson's loss goes deep.

Luna is a psychedelic delight.

Masters at building tension upon tension then gently letting it go, their cyclical instrumentals are both sorrowful and consoling.

The dreamy 'Cold Desert' is the perfect maudlin end to this short, sharp, 42-minute, no-filler album, revelling in every miserable blues-rocker cliché as Matthew's guitar goes all shoegazey and then briefly threatens to turn the whole thing into a 'Purple Rain' wig-out.

It's a real thrill to find TV on the Radio pushing through the portal into the ethereal space-rock paradise that they always seemed destined to inhabit.

Loyalty to Loyalty, an improvement on 2006's filler-heavy debut, is a sincere, if preachy, advertisement for integrity over image.

Wait till you hear 'Norrlands Riviera', the best thing Belle and Sebastian never did. Blissful.

Ladyhawke is an accessible but immensely rewarding listen, and while some of this singer's influences may be middle of the road, her album isn't even on the road.

On the one hand, it's riotously good fun; on the other, it's a bit naff.

There's no stand-out to match 'Tiny Tears' or 'Marbles' but Stuart Staples's crumpled voice and the distinctively intricate arrangements summon Lee Hazlewood's tear-flecked, bruised spirit.

Their foppish indieboy spin on classic folk-rock is, more often than not, perfectly listenable. But you can't help but wonder, between all the gleeful strums and wizened howls, whether they possess the inner torment to carry off such worldly material.

Perhaps those earliest Detroit grooves are truly inimitable after all. But if you want to hear someone give the task one hell of a shot, The Way I See It affords the finest view.

As bright young things fall in and out of fashion, it's a joy to have these gnarled veterans back to reinforce the sheer visceral thrill of timeless heavy metal.

Calexico's dusty vistas make a welcome comeback.

Grasslands, wind in your hair, long, dusty roads travelled - it's all evoked in Joan's fine 24th studio album, and her voice, high and flowing, low and gravelly, flows timelessly through it like a mountain stream.

F&M have added intriguing textures to the Krautrock of 2006's Transparent Things.

The result is an album that, unquestionably, marks him out as one of the UK's most promising new producers.

The concept of LA as a 'Sunblessed City of Angels' is trite, co-opting another's song for the theme tune lazy, and much of what follows resembles a Beach Boys tribute band.

Somewhere between Ennio Morricone, Talk Talk and late-period Massive Attack, it is atmospheric, if relentlessly bleak, with the exception of cult director Abel Ferrara's imitation of Bob Dylan on 'Open Up Your Eyes'.

Proficient and predictably salacious.

Brotherhood seems to be one for completists only. But the bonus disc, Electronic Battle Weapons 1-10, takes this into must-have territory.

Slime & Reason, then, is yet another gutsy work from a deeply honest artist.

The Golden Mile is more substantial: a very well-made rock record of perfect length (about 45 minutes) and contradictory catharsis.

Brett Anderson has reached a creative menopause.

Their second reunion carries the listener a good third of the way into this punningly titled fourth album. Trouble is, the second two-thirds are a very long slog indeed.

Of all the 32-minute concept albums inspired by Paul Auster to come out of Sunderland this year, it's comfortably the best.

Happily, Slipknot can pull in these directions and still maintain a new standard of bone-crunching intensity . There are louder metal bands in the world, for sure, but the Iowan nine-piece continue to make the most noise.

This, his band's 20th album, won't reinvent the wheel, but tracks such as 'The Time is Right' rank among the most evil-sounding in the canon.

The lyrics lack focus at times but this is a winning debut.

Their sixth album (and the first on their own label) is their most self-assured set yet, veering from sparkling glam to funky New Orleans boogie by way of early Nineties shoegazing.

There are great finds--'Man Who Couldn't Cry'--but some bones are best unpolished.

Trumpeter Mathias Eick has a sound that gently beckons and, like softly spoken conversation, you instinctively lean forward to catch every gesture. One you'll listen to on repeat to fathom its subtle meanings.

Their McFly-like soulless pop-rock is unlistenable tosh.

London Zoo provides the perfect showcase for its colourful menagerie of MCs and singers. And the Bug's no-nonsense clank and grind production fosters a rare intensity of focus on this album's higher purpose, which is to take the eloquence of Linton Kwesi Johnson and Michael Smith's Eighties dub-poetry, and blast it into digital hyperspace.

If hippie leanings and a penchant for image-dense, nature-inspired poesy make Oberst a kindred spirit to Devendra Banhart and Joanna Newsom, he can also be hard-nosed.

It remains extraordinary this ability to jump from Tom Lehrer to early Tom Waits.

Scars on Broadway offers up the tastiest smorgasbord of bite-sized pop-metal delicacies since the last time Cheap Trick recorded a Queens of the Stone Age tribute album.

Mason's latest solo guise is endearingly odd. Who else, after all, would dream of welding Tubeway Army to lubricious RB and house and pull it off?

They're not quite back to those heady 'Connected' days, but the Stereos still have a mesmeric knack of making music bounce like a rubber ball.

The third album by Polar Bear suggests that this is a band running out of ideas.

Such an eclectic, ambitious record might be expected to sound disparate, desperate even, but instead it's a set of distinctive, strangely addictive songs.

Their joyous hooks ensure Donkey is as fun as its predecessor.

The Florida band's music is pleasingly random, too. One minute they're new romantics or dour indie kids, then, before youve had a chance to draw breath, they're apeing the Ronettes.

Its hedonistic groove carries everything before it, and reminds you that 'rock'n'roll' doesn't just signify a sound (and fury), it signifies an attitude towards risk taking.

Reliability is the Hold Steady's calling card, and on Stay Positive they don't stray far from the tried-and-tested combination of orthodox guitar rock and gritty, observational lyrics.

At 35 minutes long, Object 47 is the perfect length: short, to the point, and boasting some of Wire's most vital music.

As ever, this most eloquent of rappers is stronger on zingers than philosophical coherence. But his dismal taste in beats strands his poetry in a sea of mediocrity.

Despite high points --the powerful 'Longest Days'; the romping 'My Sweet Love'; the brooding 'John Cockers'--most of these 14 songs struggle to leave a lasting impression.

Beck, at last, is back.

There's too much jokey bluster, and little ground is broken, but this is an entertaining diversion.

While the rhymes are frustratingly clunky at times ('What came first, the Chicken Nugget or the Egg McMuffin?'), her charisma ensures the result is rarely less than compelling.

This marvellously fluid third album seamlessly integrates big names Terry Hall and Martina Topley-Bird into Leilas close-knit cadre of vocal helpmeets

His post-Pete Doherty project evinces dreary futility: he thinks he's Morrissey, but he sounds more like Sandi Thom.

The hipper-than-thou trappings mean people are talking about H&LA, but it is the record itself which is a deft delight.

This is a daring, crisp modern soul album rich in ideas and star quality.

Med sud I eyrum ... is a beautiful collection that blows Sigur Rós beyond the place they come from, geographically and musically.

It's an album likely to confound and alienate, but its nooks are home to a rugged kookiness that no one but RZA could pull off.

One of the most exciting things about White Denim is the way they balance unfettered extravagance with constructive constriction.

That it lacks any obvious singles hardly seems to matter. Viva La Vida is an assured return that should go some way to restoring Coldplays wilted critical stock.

Ultimately, its a fun teen party album. Just don't call it girl power.

Adding a plaintive beauty and combining it with coke-ravaged, mid-Seventies, Spector-ish AOR and some playful studio trickery, the album is a raw, introspective and melancholic delight.

Wry, understated and occasionally heroically sorry for itself, his fourth--and best--album mixes folk, pop, country and rock to superb effect.

Forget her peers or even ex-Eurythmics - think Dusty or Aretha, albeit of SW2, instead. 19 has been on constant repeat for several weeks now and will be, I suspect, for the rest of the year to come.

Their sixth collection is broad, bouncy and almost entirely forgettable.

The result, typified by the rousing 'Oh! Vanity' and emotive 'This is the End', is a melodic and hard-fought triumph.

I Know You're Married... is a sure-footed, emotionally engaging step up the ladder.

Now, 35 years on, her voice is as resonant, lachrymose and strong as ever.

Eighteen months touring and producing themselves at home have toughened the bands sound. And broadened it.

He and producer Rick Rubin deliver a well-judged acoustic set whose songs mix war weariness with hope and loss.

They undoubtedly still see sounds others only dream of, but sometimes that vision is a little clouded.

It's much darker, more contemplative territory; the songs are like intimate nocturnes located somewhere between classical and soul.

Her voice, dark, nuanced and full of mystery, shows what a class act the singer has become.

It's an inventive reimagining of hip hop with huge basslines underpinning the otherwise cinematic atmosphere.

The synth-punk shout-pop of this boy/girl duo was cobbled together in a Salford arts complex for a budget of zero pence. And--in a totally great way--it sounds like it.

There are exceptions, notably Tortoise, Aphex Twin and Björk songs, while Lisa Germano's 'Slide' is magnificent, mainly thanks to Adem's eerie, cracked delivery.

While it's debatable whether the Cool Kids alone can restore hip hop to its former glories, there's no doubt that the Chicago-based duo (Chuck English and Mikey Rocks) are a breath of fresh air.

Convening at the point where Iron and Wine meet Panda Bear, it's dreamy and chock-full of ideas.

True to form, this third record pootles around before, ultimately, achieving lift-off.

This Is Alphabeat feels like the story of a band having embarked on an ambitious experiment in classic pop, having pulled it off, and having turned in something of a modern pop masterpiece to boot.

Last year he made the magnificent 'Dat Girl Right There', only to omit it in favour of the gloop he wades through on this.

Stunning in places ('I'm Wild About You'), pedestrian in others, the song remains the same, which is achievement enough at Al's age.

Her new dance album – her 11th – is a brilliant collaboration with the likes of Basement Jaxx and the Scum Frog.

Take one listen to the title track, accept that it's the greatest pure pop single of the year and everything you wanted from the Klaxons and didn't get, and you'll be seduced into wanting to believe that Midnight Juggernauts know what they're doing.

It's a bravely eccentric selection and a captivating homage to a singular writer.

One for the fans, but it would be churlish to deny that the Wedding Present still have plenty to offer.

Rockferry is a fantastic album of burning blue soul.

While Narrow Stairs may scale down the melody-assaults of previous efforts, with their fresh groove and whiff of rebellion, Death Cab announce themselves as genuine rock stars.